


A Willing Hart

by hexnhart



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballads, Deer, Dysfunctional Relationships, Erotic Poetry, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OOC everyone, Poetry, Reincarnation, Romance, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexnhart/pseuds/hexnhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your loved one dies, are you convinced they will return? If you are convinced, will you wait for them? And when they do come back, will they still be the person you love?<br/>This ballad was inspired by 'Sir Orfeo' and the works of J. R. R. Tolkien, and follows the relationship development between the Elvenking and Guy of Gisborne.<br/>*<br/>Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended (all characters, settings and events belong to their respective creators, the actors' private lives are their own concern etc.); the actions described do not reflect the author's personal beliefs (I'm against shooting innocent critters); at some point may contain some material that some readers may find distressing, read at your own peril; may at some point contain scenes of sexual nature; first fic - please judge sparingly.<br/>*<br/>Dedication: To Matthew, for listening to my drunken stuttering, to Lee for looking gorgeous in a wig, and to Richard, for his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foreword

**Foreword**

*

There are tales in this world, both new and old,

That are not for the common ears.

In this one that you are about to be told

Not all’s as at first it appears.

Perhaps in time I will come to regret

Imparting the story of yore,

But no one will suffer from it but myself,

For none of them live anymore.

The tales that are told by the hearth in a hall

Are naught but the same all around,

They talk of tyrants taking control

And a hero nowhere to be found.

Then the hero arrives and releases the maid,

The two are happily wed

And the villain who recently ruled and reigned

Is thrown into prison instead.

There will be none of that in the legend I tell,

My grim story of times long past,

Sit close by the grate and listen well

To a tale of yearning and lust.


	2. Fitt 1

**Fitt the First**

*

In this land, well before the Tudor rule,

Lived a sheriff of Nottingham

And a knight by his side, his obedient tool,

Guy of Gisbourne by name.

He was vicious to outlaws and stern to his own,

Mostly feared, even hated by some.

From his stone-like heart no affection had grown,

No smile broke his resolute frown.

The only play he was known to allow

Was an annual autumn hunt,

When the woods lay still in fresh-fallen snow,

Touched by neither movement nor sound.

In the greyling light at the birth of day

The party would ride from the keep,

At the forefront – lord Gisbourne in battle array,

Desecrating the snow-drifts pristine.

Shrivelled leaves shook and shivered on slumbering trees

At the sight of the lord and his men

For they brought with them neither comfort nor peace

And with ice were their leather capes hemmed.

*

So the time and place when this story begins

Is such a November day.

The sun shines bright and the branches thin

Bask in its watery rays.

Having left his retainers to fend for themselves,

Gisbourne stalks through the forest on foot,

Seeking prey lying low in hollows and dells,

Black and grim as if covered with soot.

Every track is laid bare on the canvas of snow,

Every breath is a shimmering cloud,

In the midst of a clearing a lithe gentle roe

Rears his head with the antlers crowned proud.

Milky white is the glow of the sun on his hide

Flowing loose in unfettered cascades,

Rippling dozens of hairs in a roiling tide,

Rich and luscious like golden brocade.

His small hooves barely leave any imprint at all

Just as if he was treading on air;

Unlike any odd beast he is graceful and tall.

So thoughtful, so pure and so fair

Are the eyes, greenish moor-lights with flickers of grey,

Set ablaze with a sentient flame,

Bearing both and at once all the terror of prey

And again all the thrill of the game.

*

He stands there, a fey, unattainable force,

Too cruel and too easy a kill.

But Gisbourne is used to not feeling remorse,

Nor publicly boasting his skill.

The man draws his crossbow, unlikely to miss,

And aims for the quivering flank,

His eyes narrow down, his breath – but a hiss

His feelings and thoughts going blank.

The deer turns his head as if fully intent

To welcome his slayer with glee,

He steps towards Guy, hind legs slightly bent

‘Dear heart, I’ve been waiting for thee.’

Such sweetness, such mirth in the voice of the beast,

The song of creation perchance,

The music that long ere now ceased to exist

To all but the youngest of us.

The bolt is released with a desperate whine

The aim oddly going askew,

The strange forest being starts with a cry

‘Dear heart, what has happened to you?!’

And the magic is lost, as if broken a spell,

Time speeds up to account for its lapse.

Muscle strains at the injury, torn and repelled,

Oozing red metal-reeking thick sap.

The deer bolts and the forest echoes his hurt

Deeper still than the pain of the wound,

And the stuttering pace of his faltering trot

Fades away in the shadows too soon.


	3. Fitt 2

**Fit the Second**

*

Tiny spatters of blood on the path of his prey

Are like bitter red berries on snow,

Gisbourne swore for respite not a second to stay,

Till he has overpowered his goal.

Every track is laid bare on the canvas of snow,

Every breath is a half-choking gasp

And each rustle or snap is a sound of the foe,

Soon to shut out the world with his grasp.

As the beautiful roe let the instincts take reign,

Leaving floating dry snow in his wake,

He returned in his thoughts to his dark-hearted bane,

Or perhaps it has been a mistake.

And perchance this tall man was a stranger to him,

And the song in his heart has been wrong,

But how does one explain a resemblance of limbs,

A resemblance of manners so strong.

Through the ages of waiting the thought kept him sane,

Kept him going no matter the path,

That once more he’ll partake of that glorious flame,

But it seemed he was fading at last.

In a coombe where the snow had not fallen that night,

Banks adorned with the rust-coloured ferns

He lay down on the bier of grass in plain sight

And awaited the darkness’s return.

*

As the hunter crouched low over tumbling tracks,

Drops of scarlet that followed their route,

He could scarcely remember the way to get back

Going further yet into the wood

Till he came to a crevice-like dip in the land

Where the deer must have come to a halt,

For the blood-loss he must’ve been unable to stand,

The dank coombe then becoming his vault.

But lo! In the stead of a proud woodland beast

On a canopied bedding of ferns

Lay a creature not like a deer in the least

With pale hair the hue of ripe corn.

Gisbourne paused in his tracks, swiftly crossing himself,

Cursing vilely the devilish charms

Of the delicate-bodied shape-shifting elf,

That now stared up at him in alarm.

For the fact that beneath him a child of the Fey

Trembled helplessly, pierced by a bolt,

Was beyond all mistake, since no Man ever may

Have a beauty so bright to behold.

It was somewhat akin to a rose of the East,

Brought over in the first crusades.

Whose fragrance – a riotous decadent feast

Blooms vigorously and swiftly fades.

One sour breath from hostile English winds,

That blow so often from the greying crags,

Suffices to destroy its fine-veined leaves

And to reduce its blossoms into rags.

Flawless marble-white skin is bare to the chill

As if glazed with a glow of its own,

And the shivering flesh seems almost unreal,

Like an effigy captured in stone.

In the thigh of the creature a raven-fletched bolt

Jerks with stuttering breathing, lodged deep,

Up around it blood wells like a red sticky mould,

Its jagg’d tracks to the ground slowly creep.

Pausing, stricken with awe, on the lip of the coombe,

Silent save for the rush in his ears,

Gisbourne fixed with his gaze the form in the loam,

As if it should at once disappear.

It was murder by proxy, a violent deed

What was meant as an annual hunt,

Gisbourne’s victory choked by a cankerous weed,

Sprung from only an inkling of doubt.

So descending the slope, where his victim lay prone,

Never speaking so much as a word,

He extended his hand to the flesh finely honed

To examine the grievous hurt.

Tiny hairs stood on end and the shape-shifter flinched,

Half-expecting the finishing blow,

His fair skin deathly pale and of it every inch

Crawled with goose-bumps, that tarnished its glow.

Out of pity, or greed, or a moment’ry spur

This unfortunate child of Fair Folk

Gisbourne plucked like a bride from the pallet of ferns,

Wrapping him in his own fur-lined cloak.

Fading sunlight had seen them retracing their steps,

For the days in November are short,

Winding shakily past out-houses and glebes,

Brooding over the hunt’s fateful shot.


	4. Fitt 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rants, glorious rants, they are abundant in this chapter. I've got the sniffles so the next update may take some time, but not to worry, I'll get there.
> 
> tar, thank you for your kind words, they are very much appreciated <3

**Fitt the Third**

*

I’m ill accustomed to describing pain

Or grief that haunts the edges of the face.

And this event has left in me a gape

That no amount of kindness can replace.

The household had all retired to bed,

The hunters long delivered of their spoils,

In sconces torches glowed a tepid red,

Collecting cobwebs in their beaten coils.

Down by the fire Gisbourne lay his charge,

Bare back against the yielding Eastern rug

Pale as a jasmine blossom late in March

And lean and graceful as an Irish stag.

Guy saw stout-hearted men fall archers’ prey,

Left slowly bleeding out among the dunes,

Who begged their faithful comrades them to slay

And whom the desert hungrily consumed.

*

As Gisbourne firmly grasped the bloodied shaft,

Where fletching bristled meanly from the wound,

The tip lodged in the bone full deep, no doubt,

The victim woke abruptly from his swoon.

‘Stay not your hand from the intended blow.’

He whispered softly with a palsy smile,

A barely present flicker in his glow,

A trusting, fair demeanour of a child.

‘You foolish creature,’ Gisbourne said at that,

‘Skin like the forge. The fever speaks in you.’

He drew a knife and let the metal smart

Amidst the coals until its edge shone blue.

Pinning his trembling victim to the spot,

In but a semblance of a tight embrace,

Guy felt the naked skin, silken and hot

And of a pulse a frantic racing pace.

Fey eyes strayed wildly over his hunched form,

The fire bathing it in orange haze,

Seeking a word of comfort, finding none

And slowly taking on a listless glaze.

How may one bear the bite of tempered steel

That sinks in injured muscle as in wax,

Lips worried and stained white with poppy-milk

And pupils of the eyes blown inky-black.

The elf restrained himself from crying out,

Palms scrabbling down Lord Gisbourne’s tunic clasps,

Brows knitted in a mix of pain and doubt,

Breath torn to concentrated shallow gasps.

To Gisbourne his convulsing body’s press

Was a perverse and guilty kind of warmth,

Too much like that of Marion’s numb flesh,

That final time he dared to hold her close,

Cradling her head and wrenching out in shock

Stay strands of her dark hair entwined with his,

And yet she silent stayed and white as chalk,

For she possessed no breath to cry out with.

When, finally the vicious dart removed,

The bleeding tempered by a linen swathe,

The creature leant against a nearby stool,

Mussed tresses framing his exhausted face.

*

‘Now will you suffer to explain yourself?

What is the venal goal of your attentions?’

Turned Gisbourne to the contemplating elf.

‘That sounded vaguely like an accusation.

To hear the like from you, who sold your life

For but a pile of gem-stones and a mountain,

And something else, I think you called it ‘pride’.

Even for you such an approach is brazen.

Perhaps your memory falls short,

As so much in your person did,

With whom you’ve hungered to consort

Until you went near mad with greed.

Your ego was beyond your stature,

Through folly such a death you earned

Yet I have grieved your swift departure,

Knowing some day you would return.

And so I have resigned to wait,

The human ages here pass quickly.

I got accustomed to this state,

It is the solitude that grieved me.’

‘But why a deer?’ – Gisbourne implored,

Regarding his new acquisition,

‘I’ve heard my share of forest lords,

But never of so strange a mission.’

‘All beasts of brooks and dells know well

The artless pleasure of devotion,

Yet none more so than regal elks,

Their favour – still the strongest worshiped.

There is another reason though

For this disguise that I have chosen.

You shot me once before, you know,

Yet it is past your recollection.

Tis strange, since I retained no scar

For I had better gifts to treasure,

To find my flesh once more thus marred,

Defiled for your exclusive pleasure.

How fate repeats itself at last,

For want of any better story.

But rather than relive the past,

I pray it scars this time, don’t worry.’

He laughed – a wild and husky breath,

Biting back tiredness and pain.

‘To think that I have faulted death

Merely to have you say my name!’

The wind blew down the chimney-flute,

Mice scrabbling close beneath the floor,

Outside the owls began to hoot,

But not a sound was uttered more.

Then Gisbourne stood, withdrew his hands

Smelling of incense and dry rot

From where they touched the creature’s flank.

‘Forgive me, I still know you not.’

A log collapsed within the grate,

The fire howled and bursting forth

Lit up a visage white as slate.

‘And is this all my trials are worth?!

Some folk you swore to not forget

And numbered me amongst their lot,

Or was your oath a childish bet

To lovers whom you valued not?

Ever the foul and selfish brute,

Begrudging every gem I wore,

Daring to call yourself astute,

As proud and callous as before!

Thorin, how long since we have pledged

That for as long as time would bear

No prison, barrier, nor cage

Would dim the memories we shared…’

Then he fell silent, limp and spent,

An age-old, weary, wasted shell,

Not even angry tears to shed,

No curse, no bitter damning spell.

‘Tell me, old friend, if all your claims be true,

What warrants love in your frail frame?

Name me a reason we should start anew

And I shall know you once again.’

For all the hush and subtlety of tone,

The words felt cold, unyielding to the touch

And yet the seeds of craving have been sown.

‘Yes, trust me, Thorin, I can tell you much…’


	5. Fitt 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I thought I'd kill the protagonist twice over for being so uncooperative, but we got there in the end!

**Fitt the Fourth**

_*_

Long was the tale in truth, the bygone age

Is rarely recounted with much mirth

And though the creature’s words were clear and sage,

Gisbourne felt little faith in Middle-Earth –

A land of old with glens and mountains tall,

To which in yonder life he too was bound,

Whence dwelled the likes of Man before the Fall,

While he was known as King-under-the-Mount.

Without a word, when the elf’s story ceased,

Guy rose and trod the stairs to bed,

Unheeding looks of fear, the quiet ‘Please!’,

Leaving his victim to the dark hall’s dread.

*

‘I have debased myself… To fall so low,

To grovel meekly at a mortal’s feet,

To show such desperation to be owned,

To weep in shame. How have I come to this?

Perhaps it is the bestial glamour form

I’ve grown accustomed to. Yes, indeed.

Its instincts have been guiding me too long

And find my purpose hampered by their greed.’

Close to the flames the elf had reasoned thus,

The flickers – a reflection of his gaze –

Drooped sideways restlessly, following some gust

Of wind, that sighed inside the chimney’s maze.

New winter’s breath, primitive and raw,

That, laughing, cleaved proud logic’s iron helm,

Had swept the creature bare of all resolve

And aching to feel Thorin’s arms again.

‘The only monarch of the Woodland Realm,

Now I share the traits of any common whore.

What use are noble boughs of ash and elm,

When their protector had been brought so low?’

The fire reeled and spat, as if ashamed,

As if to say ‘Not all is fully lost.’

And, finding little comfort in the flame,

The elf crept closer to ward off the frost.

Sleep numbed his limbs, the wound throbbed in its binds,

A faint diversion from the mental hurt.

Inside the fireplace shade and light combined

And final in the dark were whispered words –

‘No more at present. Speech exhausts its spell,

And only time can now amend the state.

Be wise to keep yourself within yourself.

Remember, you are patient. You will wait.’

*

By morning servants came to bathe his wound,

Bring him a meal and stand at his command.

And were, as soon as they laid out the food,

Dismissed by a swift motion of a hand.

A small deliverance – to eat one’s meal in peace,

Avoid, at least in part and for a while,

These mortals oddly desperate to please,

Hiding their fear in sugar-coated smiles.

Not half an hour hence a maid came in,

Bearing a folded stack of noble clothes.

She mumbled into silks and linens thin:

‘My master bids you to make use of those.’

To which the elf responded with a laugh

‘These are poorly equipped for repelling the cold.

As if the fire-flames are not enough.’

‘Not for warmth. For propriety. So I’ve been told.’

Having thumbed through the robes with apparent distaste,

Dropping tabards and tunics in heaps at his feet,

The fair creature retorted he thought them a waste,

And the maid flushed anew with an immodest heat.

But her lord’s entry stopped her in her tracks,

Made the girl gasp and let her burden fall,

Shrinking as if Lord Gisbourne would attack.

‘You will be clothed, while you are in my hall.

*

Cover yourself, you put too much on offer.’

Gisbourne picked up a shirt and flung it hard.

‘What’s to conceal? Is flesh now deemed improper?

My glamour is more powerful than that,

Since you will gleam no knowledge from my features

Apart from that, perhaps, I am an elf,

Whereas the true disguise is farther reaching

And covers that which constitutes myself.

Gisbourne acknowledged not the intimation,

Repeating ‘dress yourself’ and storming off

As if his grip slipped on the situation,

Earning the elf-lord’s condescending scoff.


	6. Fitt 5

**Fitt the Fifth**

*

Days dallied on, the winter settled in,

Came on soft-padded paws of chanting wolves,

The elf grew more irresolute and thin,

Eyes matted by the sky’s rough leaden wool,

While Gisbourne watched him from some lofty spot,

A dim bronze outline in the setting sun,

Pupils contracted into inky dots,

And wondered where such loyalty began.

He knew too well how passion was preserved,

Bathed in despair like flies in viscous tar

Until its amber shell glowed green and gold,

Containing it unchanged, unaged, unmarred.

Thus when the sacred image is revived

And stripped of its adorned and flawless case

The cheated heart will label as deprived

Its worldly urges and its lack of grace.

We all but merely live. And few discern

The titillating movements of the heart,

Especially, when the trials are not their own,

And all they do is merely play a part.

Thus Gisbourne thought he had the upper hand,

A grim harnessing presence for his prey,

And yet the elfin creature’s delicate charms

Grew stronger and more potent by the day.

*

Nights followed, one as vivid as the next,

The images of flame and carven stone,

Putting his flesh and spirit to the test,

Lacing the solitude with stifled moans.

He woke in pain and, unrelieved, lay still

Until the morning light drowned out his dreams,

Until there had been nothing to conceal,

Save for the quaking of exhausted limbs.

Those visions, echoes of the elf’s accounts,

Could not have been familiar to him,

Yet Guy could almost feel the scrape of ash,

The dragon’s noxious breath upon the wind.

Dull aches for an un-retrieved abode,

The bite of rough-cut gemstones in his hand,

The filth and hunger of an endless road

Through hostile kingdoms and uncharted lands.

He clawed his skin and craved another’s touch,

Not meek, subservient and sickly to the feel,

But that of someone who would be his match,

Pride gracefully submitting to his will.

Long Gisbourne cursed the winter’s idle nights,

Slow burning candles oozing golden wax,

The spark of flame it took them to ignite

And how his charge stretched on the couch, relaxed.

Time trickled, Gisbourne watched the elf watch him,

Poised over some old volume in his lap,

Eye-lids half-mast, the mystic glow within

Testing resolve until it nigh but snapped.

A treason of the body, not of mind,

A foul desire crafted by this imp,

The draw of his inhuman precious light,

A charm that made man’s will go weak and limp.

Yet Guy could not deny the wracking pull

He felt when’er the captive elf was near,

Akin to that of tides to moons in full,

Flushed full with longing and a spike of fear.

Deep in the shrivelled hours of the night

A barely felt inequity of step

Kept Guy awake, his restless thoughts enticed

To trace the snow-soft footfalls to his bed.

The scent of incense followed as a wake,

Rippling its passage through the stagnant air,

Seething wantonly like Medusa’s snakes

That framed in smoke the fairy’s gleaming stare.

The elf lay down, his movements smooth and clean,

An arrow shaft next to his dark-eyed host,

Flesh pressed to flesh, a single sinuous seam,

Dreaming of arrows of a different sort.

And Gisbourne feared the casual caress,

A pallid hair-strand slipping down his chest,

The shift of hips, the fingertips’ fine flex.

Thus neither of them in those nights found rest.


	7. Fitt 6

_ Fitt the Sixth _

*

Since Gisbourne’s servants dared not press their lord,

For fear of re-invoking his dark wrath,

The question of his guest hung unresolved,

And slowly days grew warm. The winter passed,

Spring awoke to new contests, the violent sort,

As if doling affection from some hidden store,

Gisbourne gone from the house more often than not,

With a look more foreboding than ever before.

While his guest and his hostage was patient at first,

Viewing absences as an extension of duty,

Yet Guy’s eyes were alight with unquenchable thirst

Every time that he noticed the elf-lord’s strange beauty.

Like a weathered tactician, who tasted defeat,

Set on righting his cause and pursuing the goal,

The elf-lord bade his time, obeying and sweet,

A heart-broken creator disguised as a thrall.

Eves were passed at the hearth over tales of the fay,

Gisbourne curious of their unusual bane.

It was thus that the story happened one day

To alight on the elf’s own woodland domain.

‘For there is more than horror in the woods,

More than the hunger of the rotting soil,

To which you shall return as mortals should,

Leaving my kindred to collect the spoils.

Oh, how we danced in twining rows and rings,

Light and unfettered in our sombre play,

And how we dwindled with each coming spring,

Like dreams that cannot stand the light of day.’

Guy could not stop his words: ‘You’re dream enough,

A nightmare mostly, haunting honest sleep.

What potions do you brew, what vicious stuff

Do you administer when you in darkness creep?

A treachery of body, not of mind

Your magic may have striven to achieve

Do you believe my heart can be confined?

And in my hall it’s you who isn’t free.’

‘You have grown soft and cosy in your hall,

Blaming me on your cowardice and flaws!

There are no spells that force lust in my craft

Just observation and a range of draughts,

And artificially inducing passion’s throes.

I am no woman to resort to those.

No use denying now your lecherous streak.

Call me temptation and admit you’re weak!’

The elf’s cold grace defiantly shone out,

Beyond the hurt, the passion, as a tide

Trampling down desperation, fear and doubt,

Stood fast a truly monarch’s noble pride.

Such short encounters, violent they were,

But merely served to further fan the flames,

Tended the heat and, unbeknownst, they spurred

The day it would no longer be contained.

*

Through the lattice of stained glass bay windows

Streams a delicate yellow light In a tumble of strands and sinews,

As if drawn to the ravishing sight

Of the lord of the fairies sprawled stark on the floor,

Eyes shut tight in a semblance of sleep,

Glimpsing dreams of the future or things gone before;

Cushions scattered around in a heap.

Silken cords of lean muscle slide under the skin,

Like a viper caressing its prey,

Its bejewelled dry scales worn silken and thin

In the glow of the faltering day.

There the drapes are like mountains mapping the flesh,

Throwing shadows on plateaus and dells,

Branching veins are clear rivers discovered afresh,

Fed by pulsing and coveted wells.

Now imagine Lord Gisbourne, just back from the ride,

Having hardly yet stepped through the door,

Hear a comment before he can process the sight

‘I admit you have very nice floors.’

And observe his response in a world-weary sigh,

A harsh ‘be gone’ and ‘I am tired, elf’

With but a hint of dark collector’s pride

He’d not acknowledge even to himself.

Guy turned to leave, but hands upon his boot

Halted his step, deceptively thin palms

Burning through leather as a shackle would,

Fey eyes confronting Gisbourne’s bold and calm.

‘You have avoided me these many days,

Yet not in favour of the mortal folk.

Your gaze is restless as your soul is stray.

It should be said I heard the servants talk.’

*

‘There was a maid. There always seems to be.

A doe-like creature, pious and demure.

And yet your courtship she has ill received,

Finding the waves to be the only cure.

Or am I wrong?’ ‘You think her death a joke?!’

Lord Gisbourne started with an angry hiss.

‘What action are you trying to provoke

By speaking of a slaughtered girl like this?’

‘Your anguish, merely. Proof that you still feel,

That spider-venom has not scoured your veins

Of all affection, that your heart’s not steeled

At least against a dead and frigid maid.

I envy her, for all she might have been,

I would have known you better in her stead,

More than she would be able to conceive.

And I shall prove it so.’ These words been said,

The elf kissed Gisbourne with a wary haste,

As he had striven often in his play,

To tease and trifle, rather than to taste,

And for the first time Guy turned not away.


	8. Fitt 7

**Fitt the Seventh**

*

With morning’s dew still chill and bright,

And spattering the horses’ hooves,

The elf rose eager as a sprite

To gain the lately promised proof

Of his desire and intent,

Although he doubted what they were.

To Nottingham his steps were bent

And to the taxing Council there.

Gisbourne had claimed he had his fill

Of fat and palsied hypocrites

With bleary eyes and voices shrill

Who languished in the Council’s seats.

But if the elf is adamant

To prove his worth in any way,

There is no reason why he can’t

Endure those morons for a day.

Or better still, convince the lot

That lowered taxes won’t deplete

Their purse and pocket both stuffed taut.

A great indeed that’d be a feat.

A moment’s pause to check the reins,

To thumb the skittish stallion’s brow

To cast a smile, an anxious strain,

A tinge of sadness. ‘Here I go.’

The saddle took the elf-lord’s weight,

Just as first sun-light blanched the trees

And shone small gems in river straits,

Hair, mane – all ruffled by the breeze.

And following a strangled cough

Are almost lost, but said at last,

As the steed rears and dashes off,

Guy’s quiet words ‘You have my trust.’

*

The hall filled up with shuffling lords

Whom gout has long adored and clutched,

As many parchments since record.

No doubt, you’ve seen a score of such

Racked figures, aimless in their age,

While younger earls are gone afield,

These make a hall into a stage,

To scorn that which they cannot wield.

His hair tight in a simple braid,

Lips moulded to a vacant smile,

The elf observed the whole parade

And yet his gaze was hardly shy

Sweeping through those who ruled the land

Or made pretence of doing so

Until it lighted on, by chance,

The ugliest of all their score.

A piebald body swathed in furs

Topped with an effigy of dread,

Greeting the Council with a slur

Was Nottingham’s appointed head.

The sheriff grumbled low and mean,

That peasants need be more austere,

But soon he touched upon a theme

At which the elf perked up his ears.

‘Of Guy of Gisbourne we shall speak,

Who has been absent this past week.

Has not his conduct late been strange?

I’d even say – a bit deranged.

Too long he talked of misty dales,

Abandoned graves in moonlight pale,

And now, as heard I from a snitch,

He’s fraternising with a witch!

And lastly then, but not the least,

He missed the sacred Sabbath feast!

For love of God in Heaven throned,

Get rid of Gisbourne, get him gone!’

Spoke thus the revered Nottingham,

Pacing the floor of his grand hall

In front of council and his men,

Who watched and let the hammer fall.

Across the oaken table rose,

Attracting every single gaze,

In elegant yet simple clothes

A man well shaped and fair of face.

‘You speak about Lord Gisbourne’s leave

Like brushing bread-crumbs from your sleeve.

As if with power you are vest

To thus command him in your jest,

As if in truth, for all it’s worth,

It is to you he said his oath.

Do not indulge your foolish whim,

It’ll take a king to humble him.

His will and virtue are renowned

And both commended to the crown.

Still more, you are informed of aid

He lent you in the last Crusade.

If you attempt to cut his lease

The king is bound to be displeased.

That matters not, be as it may,

'Tis me you’ll dare not disobey.’

He gazed on the assembled lords,

A glare so bright, so straight and raw

Swathed him in burning silver folds,

The angels would have been in awe.

And piece by piece like cracking clay

Some form of mirage or disguise

From his tall figure fell away

Before the stricken council’s eyes.

A velvet robe of darkest mauve

Hugged his fine frame at every curve,

A crown of leaves and golden vines

Around his lofty brow was twined,

Of hazelnut a regal staff,

With gem-stones set its upper half,

He firmly held within his hand,

And all who saw him did repent.

They thought, beholding his array,

That it, in truth, was Judgement Day,

That he was Michael come to Earth

To wreak upon them Heaven’s wroth.

When Thranduil surveyed the field,

All present there went deathly still.

‘Revert your view on Gisbourne’s fate

Before it truly is too late.

Should you impede my Lord’s return,

I swear, that Nottingham will burn.’

*

‘As for the other questions raised,

The taxes will remain the same.

A tenth of all the harvest reaped

And not a grain above that mark

I promise to deliver yee.

The others, if they will, may starve.’

All lords leaped up, a cry arose,

Some parties for and some against.

The elf was out the doors and gone,

Leaving the men to guess the rest.


	9. Fitt 8

**Fitt the Eights**

*

The elf rode back, his skin – a battlefield

Of guises, magics mixed and merged.

All who dared glimpse him on his palfrey steed,

Beheld in turns a form in fire purged

Or a decrepit wraith with lanky hair.

Beyond the hills the sun cast out its rays –

Bloodthirsty rivers snaking to their lairs,

And thrushes sang good riddance of the day,

The fated day, which dawned in many doubts,

Which for the elf gained more with dusk’s soft breath,

His inner turmoil ripe and bursting out

In forms of beasts, gods and immortal death.

Thus he rode fast, his palms slack on the reins.

Despite the victory achieved at court,

A mark of sorrow on his countenance reigned,

More dark as he drew nearer his abode.

*

Dismounting swiftly, shy and unobserved,

The elf-lord to the stables led his mount,

Their footfalls muffled by the tender earth,

And up into the hall without a sound.

His cape flew trailing in the dewy grass –

A mournful wake of lowly garden weeds,

Trod on with lack of any spite or wrath

By those of us who nature do not heed.

The house was dark, tall shadows wraithed the stairs

To which the elf had foremost bend his way,

Seeming in darkness but a shade himself,

A wisp of silver spider-silk astray.

There on the lowest step Lord Gisbourne stood,

Watching his prey approach with gleaming glance,

Equally brooding and in sour mood,

His clothing slightly crumpled and askance,

As if he rushed to gain that lofty post,

And took the shortest route from Nottingham,

Goading his horse ‘til it was white with froth,

Now still and solemn in his final stance.

Guy’s sword-worn fingers cupped the other’s jaw,

And by such means arresting his ascent

Gisbourne leant close over the fragile form,

Breathing the same arousing incense scent,

Said ‘I have heard you speak in court today.’

No more. The fervent ‘I have seen.’

Fell short of breath and there, unspoken, lay

By then – a memory of a wishful dream.

There was no distance, nowhere to retreat,

Unlike the countless instances before.

Gisbourne could feel the pulse that thickly beat

Beneath pale skin, a tide upon the shore,

Full, calm and steady. Every conflict gone

From fey green eyes that glimmered in the dark.

No frightened foal, no roe with gaze forlorn,

This wasn’t the broken thing the arrow marked.

‘And have you found a liking to my speech?’

Thranduil murmured into the caress.

‘Have your demands to know of me been reached?

What else is it you want me to confess?’

Here Gisbourne paused, reflecting on the sights,

The stories he had been presented with

By this immortal being of the light

And said ‘My curiosity’s appeased.’

Then on Guy’s palm the finer digits lay,

Pressing it further into supple flesh,

As night pressed down the remnants of the day,

Crisscrossing and entwining like a mesh.

‘I stand before you as myself at last.

As one king to another may we speak.

It has been said one can’t relive the past,

But such a theory is written for the weak.

Once more, dear Thorin, or whatever name

You’ve chosen for yourself upon this earth,

I make the offer, all the terms the same

As were before the dragon’s fetid wroth.

Join me. What use are precious stones

Against the prospect of eternal life?

In Elvendom such cases aren’t unknown,

And anything is possible with time.’

*

‘You darkling elf, sweet nature’s bitter draught,

Creation’s miscreant, the brightest of your kin,

Be patient, for oration’s not my art.

Long was the night for all it may have seemed

In which we blundered, desolate and blind,

But now that vestiges of dawn do shine,

The morning may us two united find,

My Thranduil, my treasure, heart of mine.’

I would have said such words, were I allowed,

My humble adoration at his feet

I would have laid, in compliments him shroud,

And called him by his name, benign and sweet,

But sentences are often left unsaid,

Confessions left abruptly out of place,

Thus Gisbourne frowned and bent his lordly head

As if ashamed of his impassive face.

*

‘The world has grown to be too foul a place,

Too far from any semblance to your tales,

It cares for neither purity nor grace,

The blinding lust is all that still remains.

Leave now, for I will never value you

Above a conquest in this barbarous war,

A tamed wild thing, a pretty little shrew,

And I am not your lover from before.

Or else, if you are willing to concede,

Give me no word, for I acknowledge none,

But rather choose a more permissive creed.

Once you decide, we shall agree it done.’

‘Yes. Do not give me chance to change my mind.

I shall concede and wilfully be blind

To imperfections you have outlined.

Yes. Yes, to terminate the wait,

To shun the weight of ages now long past.

Yes. I will grow accustomed to this state.

To choose mortality and to awake at last.’


	10. Fitt 9

**Fitt the Ninth**

*

And so it was, not forced by fate,

But merely a decision taken,

That gave them both a half-clean slate –

White as the snow, black as a raven,

One always entertaining he was loved,

The other ever striving for perfection –

To have a hearth, a hall, a safe abode,

Such that all their shortcomings were forgiven.

*

I knew them both in many ways,

Aware that there was much in terms of practice,

Yet it is not my place to stay

On that, where only oil-slick hands gain access.

And later, bound and unashamed,

A tardy star their only witness,

Sleek frantic limbs entwined they lay,

Desire’s miscellaneous atlas.

‘What say you? The half-hearted hunter’s moon

Has crept away onto its nightly path

Of clouds, forbearing shapes and humid blooms,

What course now destiny has laid for us?’

Lord Gisbourne gazed awhile upon his match,

Bathed in a quiet preternatural glow

That tempts the eye to tamper and to catch,

And answered finally ‘I do not know.’


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

*

Thus, one story of many upon this Earth,

I’ve related in your good faith

To relieve my time from death to birth

In this welcoming homely place.

And I thank you, my friends, all who lent me an ear,

With a final piece of advice

Good for those who are searching far and near

For a comely lad or lass.

Through this tale to you I tried to speak,

Though weak and unworthy is my art,

In lovers above all else do seek

Loyalty, honour, a willing heart.

                                                                 You can ask no more than that.


End file.
